Mom looked fragile, but buoyed by our presence. Caterina told story after story about the boys’ antics and the odd personalities that came through her classes. Soon enough, Mom had finished her drip and we headed out.
“I’m glad you girls could make it,” she said as we stepped out into the sunshine. “I feel I could get through anything with you, mes filles.”
I slung my arm around her narrow shoulders. “I’m just glad I was able to make it. I almost got stuck at the restaurant waiting for Clementine’s ice cream maker.”
“Did it arrive early?” Caterina asked. “That never happens to me.”
“No, Adrian came in at the last minute and offered to stay.”
Three pairs of eyes swiveled to stare at me.
“What? He’d just picked up a crate of shallots for Nico. It worked out.”
“Of course.” Maman patted my arm. “He is a sweet boy. Be sure to tell him thank you for me.”
Caterina and I went shopping that evening. We parked near NW 23rd and Lovejoy and walked southward, up the hill. We ducked in and out of boutiques, browsing and chatting, stopping halfway through for ice cream at Salt & Straw.
“So. In all of our conversations,” Caterina began as we sat outside with our ice cream cones, “you never mentioned how good-looking Adrian is.”
“Didn’t know it was worth mentioning.”
“Those curls?”
I gave her that. “He does have good hair.”
“That’s better than ‘good hair.’ Josh Groban wants that hair.”
“When I met him, you have to understand,” I said, “he was…flirtatious to the point of smarmy.”
“Huh. I wouldn’t have gotten that.”
“He’s changed.”
“Did he? I don’t find that people ever change all that much. Which isn’t to say people can’t change, only that they don’t usually choose to.”
“That’s deep.” I brushed my hair back out of my face.
“Maybe he was always an okay guy who liked you, but didn’t know how to show it. Just because a guy’s not eight anymore, doesn’t mean he’s necessarily any good at knowing what to do with his feelings.”
“Maybe. He never asked me out—it was nothing.”
“Would you have accepted?”
“Of course not.”
“He doesn’t strike me as stupid. No man wants to be turned down.”
“I’m with Neil. It doesn’t matter.”
“True.” Caterina stood up and looked around. “Are you ready to walk? I’m ready.”
We finished our cones and resumed our stroll.
“Have you talked to Neil recently?” Caterina asked. “When’s he flying out?”
“Probably not until Saturday morning, he said. He’s trying to wrap some things up at work this week before he leaves.”
“Sounds logical.”
“I wish it were sooner, but it is what it is. Ooh, look—” I stopped in front of one shop window. “Let’s go in there.”
A swingy black dress later, we strolled back down the hill toward the car. “I love it,” I told my sister for the thirtieth time. “Thank you so much. And tell Damian thanks too.”
“You’re welcome. There’s no such thing as too many black dresses, and that one fit you perfectly.”
I wrapped my arms around her in a sloppy hug. “You’re the best. I wish you were here always. I know you’ve got your grown-up life in Chicago, but a girl can dream. I feel like I can manage life better when you’re around.”
“I’m only a phone call away. And you’re managing life just fine—give yourself some credit.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking of Grand-mère’s letters, the restaurant, Neil. “I feel pretty overwhelmed…most of the time.”
“Hang in there,” Caterina said as we approached the car. “The restaurant will be open soon, and you’ll be too busy to feel overwhelmed.”
I barked out a laugh. “Thanks a lot.”
In bed that night, with Gigi curled up beside me, I pulled out my grandmother’s letters. Evenings had become “Mireille time”—and the more I read, the more I wanted to know the end of the story, hoped that there might be a happy ending waiting for her, one way or another.
September 12, 1940
Dearest Mireille,
I am cautiously hopeful on your behalf, with the baby. I am so sorry about the dreadful Germans in the city at such a time! I regret this is a short letter—Maman has me running errands today, and I wanted to dash off a response sooner rather than later, even if it wasn’t nearly long enough. My love and prayers are with you. I’m delighted to be home, and more delighted that you may soon have a baby to fill your life with more joy.
Bisous,
Cécile
October 1, 1940
Dearest Cécile,
The doctor visited today. He believes it’s possible I’m carrying twins!
I drew back in shock. Twins? I read the line twice over—there was no mistaking it. But if this pregnancy was the one resulting in my mother, either the doctor was wrong, or something had happened. There were three years between her and my oncle Henri.
Can you believe such a thing? I almost can, because I am so very large, and I am quite certain about the timing.
The sickness has passed, which I’m glad for—as bad as my sickness was last time, this was far more severe. Now that I am better, I bake at our apartment or Tante Joséphine’s to practice my technique.
I try to stay busy because Gabriel is gone so often. He is teaching at the pastry school and working evenings at the restaurant. He is conscious of us having money set aside for when the babies come.
It is far enough along, I have decided to write Maman and Papa and tell them of the babies. While there is still a part of me that hardly believes it to be true, there is another part of me, a deeper part, that tells me that they will arrive whether I’m ready or not.
Perhaps they’re talking to me from the womb. I suppose it could happen.
Please tell me how things are after your trip—are you receiving letters from admirers? Have you seen any more of M. Caron?
À bientôt,
Mireille
I smiled and put the letters down for the night. My stomach curled in anxiety about Mireille’s future, but reading about Cécile and Richard never failed to put a smile on my face.
We seldom report of having eaten too little.
—THOMAS JEFFERSON
On Thursday, I discovered I had nothing to do. The restaurant thrummed with readiness. The last of the details had been attended to, and what needed to be done rested on Nico’s shoulders and not mine.
So I found myself with a strange window of free time. Gigi and I took a long walk, her fur growing dingy from the dirt, her tongue extended with joy. I thought about Mireille—I’d continued to think of her less as my grand-mère, more as a friend, or a character in a novel.
Gigi and I enjoyed our walk; when we got home I left her to snooze on the floor while I tapped out a brief e-mail to Élodie. I updated her on what I knew about Gabriel and Mireille in Paris, and promised that I’d likely know more soon.
And then I realized I had a few more hours to myself.
I wanted to read more letters—I knew that for sure—but I’d hardly spent any time in my own kitchen for weeks.
I brightened when I found Rainier cherries in the fridge, with their sunset-colored skin. Nearby sat a tub of mascarpone, and I knew then I could make simple crostini. I washed and pitted the cherries, and then sliced a stray baguette on the bias. While the slices toasted, I mixed the mascarpone with a bit of honey for sweetness and lemon zest for acidity. Once the slices were hot and crisp, I spooned the mascarpone mixture over the top, added a few leaves of lemon thyme, and topped each one with a heaping spoonful of sliced cherries.
A single bite tasted of summer.
I took a glass of iced tea, a couple of cherry crostini, and a napkin with me to the chair in the front window, and sat down to read
letters on my laptop.
October 10, 1940
Dearest Mireille,
If I never attend another party for the rest of my life, I will die a contented woman.
And unfortunately yes, there were letters from “admirers.” I’m probably being melodramatic by using quotation marks, but I feel they admire my family and social standing more than they actually admire me. I laughed my awkward laugh at the party, dearest. I can’t help but be suspicious of a gentleman who would continue his attentions after such a sound.
I’m glad to be reunited with Coco, who still welcomes me near. That is a comfort, and I reward her for it with apples (she was kind even before I began bringing the apples, lest you believe I purchased her affection in the first place). One of the hands is training her to a bit and to ride—I’m going to ask Papa for her to be mine.
Much love,
Cécile
P.S. I regret to say I spotted M. Caron in the village with a brunette. That’s all on that subject that I shall commit to paper.
Shame on Grand-oncle Richard, existing near a brunette! I couldn’t help but giggle at Cécile’s horror. I knew her history too well to be particularly concerned.
October 25, 1940
Dearest Cécile,
The city has me on edge. There was a census taken this month by the government, requesting (demanding, more like) Jews to register. Because of their surnames and Protestant beliefs, Gabriel and Benjamin did not register. Nathan did not either, though it pained him, as he has chosen to follow much of his mother’s ways. In the end, his wife—who came from a prominent Jewish family in Poland—convinced him to hide their identity for the time being, as Esther did in the palace of Xerxes.
The scriptural reference assuaged his spirit, although he argued that Daniel and his compatriots chose to stand apart in the court of Nebuchadnezzar. In the end, they agreed that the safety of their children was paramount. Gabriel breathed easier once his brother told him he’d chosen to continue to hide their heritage.
Gabriel also found Nathan a job. Linguistics professorships are difficult to come by at best in the city, and not with any more ease during the academic year. They also agreed that to continue as a professor might be dangerous—he specialized in Hebrew at the university in Warsaw. Now he drives a delivery truck for the suppliers used by Gabriel’s restaurant. It is far beneath him intellectually, and yet he’s taken to it with cheer.
Did I tell you about Benjamin’s wedding? I cannot even remember what we have to catch up on. He designed her wedding ring, as he designed mine (with Gabriel’s input). Their ceremony was small but lovely; she wore a beautiful ivory suit, which she informed me could be worn and repurposed as separates. Her practicality can be dreary sometimes, but she is a good fit for Benjamin, who is highly pragmatic himself. Indeed it seems I married the dreamer of the family.
Please tell me how you are—any enjoyable correspondence from your gentlemen?
Bisous,
Mireille
November 5, 1940
Dearest Mireille,
Oh, my gentlemen. They write such fascinating missives! One of them wrote about his racing car and how he hopes the war will not affect his racing season in Montenegro.
Another wrote at length about his interests in botany. It’s fascinating. I’ve had trouble sleeping lately, and while reading War and Peace did not help, his letter did.
This is not to say that botany cannot be interesting, and yet from this young man it made me terribly drowsy.
I would probably like these men more if I didn’t find myself thinking so often about M. Caron. Papa hired him to perform some repairs on the barn, and Maman wants a new trellis in the garden, so it appears he’ll be nearby often.
No word on the identity of the brunette in the village. I didn’t know her, but then I didn’t see her face either.
Maman asks after my correspondents often. I’ve passed the letters to her when I’m done with them—I suspect she enjoys them more than I do.
The amount that she pesters me, I suspect she won’t rest until I’ve chosen a suitor, at which point Maman would invite that gentleman and his mother to visit the chateau.
Can you imagine anything worse?
Aside from having the Germans in Paris, and all of that?
Oh, dearest, please accept my hyperbole in the manner intended.
Cécile
November 14, 1940
Dearest Cécile,
You are right. That sounds dreadful, and hardly hyperbolic.
Not much to report here. Every morning I wake up and find myself somehow larger than the night before. Anouk hardly knows what to make of my changing shape, but she’s trying to make the best of it. The fact that I’m moving more slowly during walks, I think, is her greatest trial.
Gabriel’s begun to come home even later from the restaurant than usual.
In fact, I think his brother Nathan sees more of him than I do, since he’s been taking deliveries around. I came home early from baking at Tante Joséphine’s one day, arms full of baked goods to share with our neighbors, and found him and Nathan at the apartment together. From the stack of coffee cups in the sink, they’d been in deep discussion for quite some time.
I suspect Gabriel may be planning a patisserie of his own, and he and his brother are thinking of going together in the business. But when I ask, he evades me (this is, of course, in the off-chance that we see each other).
Oh well. When he’s ready to confide in me, he will. But it’s a potentially concerning endeavor, should the Germans and Vichy government decide to consider them Jewish because of their mother’s heritage.
Coco sounds absolutely delightful. I’m sorry none of your suitor letters are satisfactory, however.
Have you tried distracting mother with decorating? I remember the dining rooms appeared a bit dated when I visited last (it didn’t, really, but you could suggest a new fabric for the drapes. The rest will take care of itself).
Bisous,
Mireille
December 2, 1940
Dearest Mireille,
You’re quite brilliant—the drapery distraction worked like a charm! We have a trip to Marseille planned for fabric. Fabric, I can shop for. And there are the holidays to consider as well. We must be festive, even in these times, at least that is Mother’s endeavor.
I’m sorry to hear that Gabriel’s been so scarce lately. Any other gentleman I might suspect had…other interests, but of course I could never think such a thing of Gabriel.
You didn’t ask about M. Caron, because I suspect you were trying to be delicate.
He’s been quite solicitous, though reservedly so—especially if Maman or Papa are anywhere nearby. A storm brought a tree down and into a window in the south wing. Nobody was hurt, save a very old, very ugly chaise that’s been damaged beyond repair by the water. At any rate, M. Caron has been conducting the repairs. He has the loveliest eyes, and when he smiles at me I wonder if perhaps I was mistaken about the brunette in town all those months ago.
But just when I begin to wonder, someone will walk by and he will tuck his smile away, making me think I imagined it in the first place.
Did you ever do such a thing? Imagine smiles? Please tell me.
Gilles has returned from Paris and visited Papa last week. I sat with him while he waited for Papa. He asked after you in Paris, and by the way he asked I realized he did not know you’d married.
I shouldn’t have been surprised since Maman and Papa have been difficult about it, and I suppose you didn’t feel the need to write Mme. Bessette to tell her the news. At any rate, I told him you’d married a lovely man, a pastry chef, and looked forward to starting a family. He asked after your husband’s name, and when I told him, he seemed to recognize it. Gabriel has quite a name for himself—even Gilles has dined enough in Paris to recognize it, or so he said. He nodded very somberly and said he wished you all happiness.
I know you were quite pleased to be away from him, but he did seem
genuinely glad to hear you were well and happy, even if you’re stuck in a city with Germans. That was very nice of him, don’t you think?
Forgive me, I’m still dwelling on M. Caron and the fallen tree. It’s just as well we’ll be going to Marseille for a few days. Perhaps he’ll be done by the time we get back.
Bisous,
Cécile
December 15, 1940
Dearest Cécile,
Yes, perhaps getting away from M. Caron and to Marseille will be beneficial. I can’t believe you’ll be there and back again without one—or three—cocktail parties and conversations with pampered, moneyed boys.
However, it’s also possible that M. Caron has romantic desires that he feels he cannot act on because of Maman and Papa. Have you flirted with him much? When Maman and Papa are not in the house?
Try it and see what happens. If he is kind and responsive—and flirts back—perhaps once he’s done with the work at the house, you might venture back to the village and see if he’s more forward (weather permitting).
And if not…well, there’s always your botanist gentleman.
I’m glad Gilles has continued to keep Papa company, though I do wish our parents might decide to accept my marriage. I’m carrying their grandchildren, after all.
No, I don’t worry about Gabriel. When we do see each other, he is…attentive. Because we’re both ladies, I won’t explain in further detail. But I am not concerned about him straying to another woman. Not when he is so very expressive of his affection.
I only wish he were a little more communicative. Oh well.
Missing you deeply during this Advent season, but wishing you (and our parents as well) a joyful Christmas all the same.
Bisous,
Mireille
December 24, 1940
My very dearest Mireille,
Joyeux Noël! I miss you terribly as well. Christmas isn’t the same without you, but I have determined to be joyful just the same.
You are so very wise! Not only did I have three cocktail parties awaiting me in Marseille—more on that subject later—but I waited until Maman went to tea with Mme. Proulx (I pleaded a headache, which was true. What was also true was that I may have knocked my head rather gently against my bedroom wall a few times before telling her so), and Papa was in his office.
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